Grabbing my hand, she said, “This is Biren. You remember?”
I glanced up at him, and I do mean up, because he must have been around six feet three and was the tallest person I’d seen since arriving in India. Somewhat shyly, I said, “Yeah, Monali Auntie reminded me that we used to play together as kids.”
“Yes, it was a very long time ago.” Biren spoke perfect English but with a slight accent I couldn’t place.
“My parents said your family moved to Mumbai.”
“Yes, we were there for a year, and then we moved to Australia. I went through most of my schooling in Sydney.”
I smiled, now able to identify the lilt in his voice. “Thank you for coming during this time. Monali Auntie said your family has been stopping by the hospital and bringing us food and tea,” I said in the same way I’d heard my mother thank the other visitors who had come earlier.
“Of course,” he said. “Your family would do the same for us.”
I nodded. He was right. Regardless of whether days, weeks, or decades had passed since my parents had last seen his, they would have jumped to help in any way they could. As much as I didn’t connect with most of my parents’ friends, I respected that they were always there for each other. With obligation came loyalty. And while I didn’t feel any obligation to my friends, I couldn’t say that I had that same level of unquestioned loyalty either.
“Do you still live in Australia?” I asked.
He shook his head. “We moved back to Ahmedabad after I finished my pharmacy degree.”
“That must have been quite an adjustment.”
“We always knew we’d come back home, so it wasn’t too much of a shock to the system.”
We saw my parents and Neel walking from Dipti’s room to the waiting room. Neel’s head hung low, as if he were about to face his executioner.
Monali Auntie put her hand on my back. “Go. Be with your family.”
I offered an apologetic smile and said, “Thanks for understanding. I was just on my way to find some coffee for Neel.”
“No worries on that,” Biren said. “I’ll find a couple steaming cups and bring them over to you.”
“Thank you,” I said, grateful for the kind gesture.
After the initial shock had worn off, Neel approached the decision the way he approached every major decision: by being pragmatic. He and Dipti could have another baby, but there was only one Dipti. He couldn’t imagine his life without her in it.
“I’m so sorry, Neel,” I said, throwing my arms around him in a fierce hug. “We’ll get through this.”
His forehead dropped to my shoulder, and I felt his tears soak into my shirt. “She’ll never forgive me for this,” he mumbled.
I shook my head. “Don’t say that. She will. You had to do what was best for her.”
“You don’t understand how much this baby meant to her.”
“No, I don’t. But I know how much you mean to each other. She won’t forget that, even with something this awful.”
Once the decision was made, the four of us sat in a circle, cross-legged on the floor of the waiting room. We bowed our heads, closed our eyes, placed our palms together, and prayed while tears slid down our cheeks and sobs escaped from our throats. The four of us had been in that prayer formation many times during my childhood when we got calls from India that someone had passed away. Monali Auntie, Biren, and the other relatives and friends made a ring around us. Dad led us through the hymns, his impassioned voice reverberating through the room. I had long forgotten the words, so I mumbled under my breath, feeling a bit like a phony. But then with each round of prayers, I started recalling more words, and my voice became louder, bolder. We prayed that Dipti would survive and, by some miracle and against all odds, the baby would too. Our prayers had to be answered. They just had to.
11
The next day when Dipti finally awoke from her procedure and was coherent, my parents and I stood silently outside the room while Neel broke the news to her. None of us could make eye contact while we thought about how Dipti would react upon learning the baby growing inside of her was gone. The doctors had done everything they could after delivering the baby girl, but the trauma of the accident was too much for her. She’d lasted less than an hour.
Dipti’s gut-wrenching wail said it all.
I jumped when I heard it, about to rush into the room to help, but my mother put a hand on my shoulder to stop me.
“Let them have time,” she said.